


On Posthumous Reconciliation

by wellisayfriend



Category: Fargo (2014), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach, don't look at me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 19:30:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3332369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellisayfriend/pseuds/wellisayfriend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After falling to his death, Sherlock invests in some life insurance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Posthumous Reconciliation

  
    "Hello Sherlock."  
    The tone was level, emotionless. From what he could hear in the inevitable silence that followed, a treadmill was currently being used (or rather, abused).  
    Sherlock really couldn't help but pause for a while. Truth be told, he didn't know what to say. He thought he wouldn't be hearing that voice for a long time; a few years, at least. Usually people leave you alone when you die. Mycroft was not one of those people.  
    "Are you sure you have the right number?" Sherlock finally replied.  
    "Oh heavens, you thought I wouldn't know exactly where you would flee after that whole St. Bart's stunt? Please, Sherlock, have some faith in me."  
    "Down to the exact room, though." With as much flexibility as the phone’s cord would allow, Sherlock casually scanned the musty old surroundings of his new abode - a bed and breakfast 20 miles from Oslo - and wondered just how his brother was surveilling him. "That's impr--If you were anybody else, I would be impressed."  
    "Speaking of ‘anybody else’, this time tomorrow, you're going to be in Minnesota, going over life insurance policies with a lovely middle-aged chap. Haven't met him personally, but from what I've seen, the man looks darling in a suit."  
    "Are you sending me on an international mission to set you up on a date? Because I swore I wouldn't do that for you, Mycroft. Not again."  
    "It's not for me, it's for you. I'm giving you a new pet to bounce ideas off of. Clearly, communicating with me on a regular basis would endanger each of us, not to mention the fact that I have a demanding, time-consuming job, and am not bereft of brain cells like the assistants whom you are usually keen to choose. I thought it was only appropriate to grant you a shiny new sidekick. Plane takes off in four hours."  
    "I'm amazed, truly. Why, in your own way, this is almost kind." Sherlock fixed his gaze on the adjacent wall of the beaten-down room, perplexed by Mycroft's gesture.  
    In response, Mycroft gave a heartfelt "I'm hanging up now." and promptly did just that.

 

\- --  ---   ---- ❀ \----   ---  -- -

  
    Upon arriving in Bemidji, Sherlock wondered if he could ever possibly find an excuse to spend prolonged time in a tropical climate. He then remembered that he was the one who exiled himself to Norway prior to this, so really, he got what was coming to him.  
  
    The address that Mycroft gave to him lead to Bo Munk Insurance Shop. After having heard half a dozen repetitions of their muffled radio ad in the airport shuttle, he felt almost fully acquainted with the company by the time he reached it.  
    Sherlock would have gone inside, not suspecting anything to be particularly amiss, were it not for the fact that a majority of the tiny building's façade was glass. He could see right before him, plain as day, one of the people he 'died' for: John Watson.  
  
    As he walked towards the entrance, all the while, destroying his rather expensive shoes in inch-high slush, a flurry of questions rushed through his mind.  
    He wondered if John and Mycroft peaceably teamed up together with no regard for the safety of any of their lives.  
    He wondered whether or not John would personally bash Sherlock's skull in himself once he caught a glimpse of him.  
    He wondered how John found himself a fake gig at an insurance shop.  
    And, on a less pressing note, he wondered how John came to have a neverending supply of whimsical sweaters.  
    Sherlock wanted to get to the bottom of this, and he planned to do so, the only way he knew how: by being irritating.  
  
    John's head anxiously snapped up as Sherlock entered the store, placed his hands behind his back and took a few strides towards John's desk.  
    "Let's say someone falls off the top of a building. What does one stand to gain from it?"  
    John blinked, seemingly perplexed by the question, which was, admittedly, a bit bold as an opener.  
    "Ah, well, if this is a close family member, say, parent, significant other, what have you, there could be a lot to be gained. Is this hypothetical?"  
  
    This response was exceptionally bizarre for a number of reasons:  
    1. He answered the question. Sherlock didn't expect him to answer the question.  
    2. He answered the question in a Minnesotan accent. Sherlock didn't expect him to answer the question in a Minnesotan accent.  
    3. Bruises scattered across his nose and cheeks suggest his nose was broken a few days ago (he had last seen John several days earlier, during which time there were no bruises of any sort), on his right hand is an injury that is clearly infected and has not been properly cared for (an improbable affliction for a doctor such as himself) and he is wearing a wedding band from what Sherlock would estimate to be a 20 year long marriage, a bit too small for added realism. He is either eons ahead of Sherlock in terms of disguising oneself, or the man in front of him is not John.  
  
    Sherlock had a thousand possible responses in his head. The one that came out of his mouth was, "married."  
    "You're married? So, your wife fell?" He ("Lester Nygaard," according to his placard) glanced at a rack of brochures, as if one of them would be perfectly suited to the ever-so-common situation of wives falling to their deaths.  
    Sherlock had a split second to choose: he could either tell the truth…or not. He chose the latter.  
    "Yes, she did. Just last week." He did his best to feign some amount of sorrow. It seemed like Lester was doing just the same with sympathy.  
    "Oh, dear. And, was she--did she--"  
    "No, she's just in hospital, thankfully. I don't know what I'd do if she took another fall like this, what with her line of work."  
    "What is her line of work?" The salesman leaned forward slightly.  
    "Tightrope walker." He regretted saying it as soon as he said it. So, four days was the most he could go without sleep before losing his skills of improvisation, it would seem. Noted.  
    Lester nodded and returned his gaze to the brochures. "I'm not sure we have anything that specific." He scanned through each slip of paper until his eyes were drawn to a brightly colored pamphlet from the bottom row. He plucked it out of the stand and showed it to Sherlock, all the while, smiling from ear-to-ear. "We have, 'So Your Husband's A Stuntman: The Key to Safely Living on the Edge by Proxy’! That's pretty close."  
    "It's perfect, I'll take it."  
    Lester couldn’t contain his pride as he handed over the bizarre little tri-fold. "Well, happy to help, Mr. ..."  
    "Holmes. Sherlock Holmes." He replied, cringing at his James Bond-ian response. First order of business after this meeting would be to find a decent motel and get a few hours of shut-eye. Currently, he was dead set on bringing up something that he had become curious about after scanning Mr. Nygaard. "Losing my wife, it's impossible to even imagine." He began, neglecting to mention the fact that the thought was impossible because the wife was imaginary. "How have you handled it, Lester?"  
    The salesman's friendly demeanor vanished. "Excuse me?"  
  
    Suddenly, a gust of wind from outside was the only sound in the room. Sherlock turned to see a young woman in a brown, police-issued parka pushing into the store with a fair amount of files bundled under one arm.  
    "Hey, Lester." She said, crossing the room with the kind of 'casualness' that she must have practiced in front of the mirror before coming here.  
    "Hi there. Cold enough for ya?" He half-shouted, equally inept at being casual.  
    "Oh, you bet. Say, I was wondering if we could talk for a bit." She adjusted the files under her arm.  
    "Sure. I mean, ah, well, I told Bill all I remember from that night, and I'm-"  
    "Oh, yah, yah, I don't mean to worry you any further with that stuff. Actually, I was wondering if we could talk about life insurance. Was thinkin' of goin' over policies."  
    Sherlock didn't believe that lie for a second. He smirked at how obviously untruthful the officer's statement was, until she caught him smirking at her.  
    "Sorry, didn't mean to cut into your time." She said, squirming ever so slightly under his gaze. "I spose I should wait my turn."  
    "That's alright. I don't mind if Lester doesn't mind." He replied in his best American accent, which, if he were to rate it, would be somewhere between his Russian one and his French one. That is to say, not too good. But it gets the job done, as evidenced by the officer's lack of raised eyebrows. Lester, on the other hand, looked to be on the verge of a full-fledged panic attack.  
    "No, I don't mind at all." Lester said, quickly scratching out a small message on a form he pulled from his desk drawer. He handed it to Sherlock, who tucked it in his breast pocket. "You have a great day, now."  
    "Oh, you too." Sherlock replied with the same affected Midwestern cheeriness as he stood up and made his way to the door. As a finishing touch, he gave a quick salute to the officer and stepped out into the relentless cold with an unabashed feeling of accomplishment.  
  
    Sherlock walked two blocks and rounded the corner before opening the note that was handed to him. In tiny, slanted letters, in the middle of the form, was Lester's message:  
  
                (218) 555-2837  
                We're not done.  
  
    It was quite menacing, coming from him. Sherlock didn't know what lied ahead, but damned if he wasn't excited.  
  
    And tired.  
  
    It was another five blocks before he found a place to stay, and by then, he was practically sleepwalking. After his head hit the cheap, thin, undoubtedly mite-filled pillow, he wasn't conscious again until 5pm the next day.  
  
    Upon waking, Sherlock dialed the number given to him. Lester picked up on the second ring.  
  
    “Hello?” After a few seconds of silence, he asked, "Mr. Holmes?"  
    Sherlock couldn't help but smile. “Your place or mine?”

 

\- --  ---   ---- ❀ \----   ---  -- -

  
    Lester Nygaard lived in a remarkably pleasant-looking neighborhood. Row after row of gable-roofed houses sat silent and still in the thick, wintry coat of snow that laid over the whole town.  
    When Lester answered the door, he was just as silent and still, but he was also holding a shotgun. It would have been a more menacing sight to see if the weapon didn’t hang from his elbow to the floor.  
  
    “Not planning on using that on me, are you?” Sherlock asked, fighting back a grin.  
    “Don’t know yet. Come in.”  
  
    The inside of Lester’s home looked to have been previously warm and inviting, at some point in time. Now, it was dim and grey, with a sizable dried pool of blood sitting untouched in the living room. He led Sherlock to the ovular dining table and motioned for him to sit down.  
    Using a noticeable amount of exertion, Lester crooked the gun up until the butt of it rested in his cable-knit-coated armpit. “Now, what do you know?”  
    “I know I don't want to get shot. I’ve already died once this week, not looking to set a record.”  
    "Stop jokin' around. Tell me what you know about my wife's death."  
    "Mr. Nygaard, the only thing I know is that she is dead, and that's simply because you confirmed it. I'm prone to bringing these sorts of things up when they come to my attention. I had no idea it would be such a sore subject."  
    Lester lowered the gun. The tip was now pointed at Sherlock’s shoes. The Italian leather had already taken quite a beating in the snow, but there’s no doubt that he would be less than happy in the event of losing toes.  
    "You had no idea…that my wife's death would be a sore subject. Of course it's a sore subject, my wife's dead! Geez, do you have any sort of brain knockin' around in that skull?"  
    Sherlock drew in a sharp breath. ”You were married for about 20 years, going by the quality of your ring. I could tell you had no kids because you had a photo of your wife on your desk in your office but none of any children. No pets, judging by the absence of fur on your clothing. It would be murder to get pet hair out of a sweater." He straightened his posture against the wooden chair, inhaled once more, and continued. "Speaking of murder, your wife. I could tell she was gone for two reasons. One, you had recently been crying before I entered the store. Not hard to tell. And two, it's clear that someone different has been doing your laundry. The shirt you were wearing was well-worn around the collar, the top button had been re-attached, clearly you'd liked the feel of it long enough to keep it in regular circulation in your wardrobe. Yesterday, the fabric was stiff, bit of irritation on your neck. It hadn't been washed in the usual way, with the same care, so, I guessed that your wife was no longer in the picture. You were wearing, and continue to wear, your ring, something that would typically be too painful to carry on doing if she had left you, and improbable if you had left her. And all of this, paired with the fact that our last interaction was brought to a close by a police officer, to whom you mentioned a divulgence of events to another officer, makes it easy to conclude that she had not died of natural causes, but was killed."  
    Lester murmured, “Chrissakes, I've taken the Jeopardy computer hostage.”  
    Sherlock fought back a smirk.  
    Lester continued. “What's wrong with me. I'm an absolute…ah geez. What am I supposed to do? I can't, heck…" He drifted off until he was soundlessly mouthing words. His eyes welled up with tears, his face cinched up in worry, and the gun made an unsettlingly heavy sound as it clopped against the hardwood floor.  
    Sherlock briefly considered telling Lester that everything was alright. That he wouldn't tell anyone about the recently-widowed salesman who nearly shot him with a firearm half his size. Instead, he used this period of silence to text his brother, who he happened to know was not able to speak at this time.  
  
    How is your meeting? Has the man with the odd-shaped head shown up yet? - SH  
  
    My meeting is fine. Not as good as yours, I hope. - MH  
  
    Where did you find him? - SH  
  
    The man with the odd-shaped head? He applied for the job. - MH  
  
    You know who I mean. - SH  
  
    One learns about a lot of people when in prison. - MH  
  
    Sherlock felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.  
     _Prison._ Moriarty told Mycroft about this man.  
    Moriarty found this man in the first place, just like he found Sherlock's own doppelganger, whose last job was to make children afraid of the consulting detective, and whose current job involves residing full time in a coffin, six feet beneath the consulting detective's tombstone.  
    Sherlock knew that there must have been plans lined up for Lester Nygaard as well, otherwise his name wouldn't have been so readily available on Moriarty's lips. The question was whether or not anything had been done to kick off those plans.


End file.
